Poet Nagat Ali retraced the route she took through Tahrir Square in 2013--which she documented in her book about her experiences of the Egyptian Revolution. Ali completed work on her manuscript on while in residence at Montalvo. As she walked through Tahrir Square, the author read the following excerpt from the book, narrating her daily life during the January 25th revolution:

The Friday of Rage: The March to Tahrir SquareBy Nagat AliTranslated by Gretchen McCullough.

I woke up on the morning of January 28th a little before Friday prayers. My younger brother was already outside and he was talking to a friend, a neighbor in our building: “I’ll wait for you after the prayers. Don’t be late.” I became worried and asked him where he was going. He told me he was going to pray and then return to our house. I gently advised him that he should not to an area, far from where we lived. I was frightened for him because demonstrations shouldn’t be taken lightly. Maybe I was also frightened because he was impulsive, young and inexperienced; he did not know how to protect himself. He had never participated in any demonstrations or protests in Egypt.

I went directly to the El-Fatah mosque after Friday prayers. I imagined that it would just be another sit-in, nothing more. However, I was surprised by the huge crowd like me, waiting for the worshippers inside the mosque. After the worshippers had left the mosque, they joined the crowd and crossed Hussein Desouki Street to join other groups from El-Ferdus mosque, located on the same street. More people joined, creating an enormous wave of people; I suddenly noticed in the crowd many were Ultras from the Zamalek Team and Ahli.* From the first moment I viewed the Ultras with a terrified eye and considered them a threat because of my fear of the violent groups of Ultras I had seen at soccer matches—in terms of their strength in numbers and organization. I found myself marching with the Ultras and repeating their chants. I noticed how they swept through the streets; they were not afraid of security forces. Just the opposite, they knew how to deal with them. Like a team, their movement was disciplined and they chanted in rhythm. I felt this demonstration had transformed into an orchestra; they were clever musicians. Like pied pipers, they were trying to draw people from their buildings with their chants:

“One, two, Where are the Egyptian people?”

“If you’re watching, you are not Egyptian. Or what?”

“ Raise. Raise the voice. He who chants will never die.”

“We are one people together. Join us.”

“Mubarak. Mubarak. Jedda, Jedda, is waiting for you.”*

When the demonstration stopped at the Maadi Station, I started to see different groups who joined us: poor men and women in traditional clothes and young children from the neighborhood Basteneen and other young people from the wealthier areas of Maadi. I was sure that this was truly a popular uprising.

When the security forces came near us, we answered by clapping, “Peaceful. Peaceful.”

Before we crossed Maadi Street to the Maadi Corniche people began to hang out their balconies; they cheered us with love and affection from their windows. We were like a bridal procession, not an angry demonstration. Some of them threw bottles of water, fruit and Pepsi to us. I felt as if I were in a dream; I had entered a scene in a historical movie. The youth around me raised the Egyptian flag confidently in a way I had never seen before; everywhere I looked, people were so jubilant at this great scene that they were taking photographs from their windows. The demonstrators themselves were taking photographs of the demonstration with their phones to record this important historical moment. For the first time, I felt I was not alone in my alienation when we crossed the corniche. We shared one dream: the fall of this regime; and the injustices connected to it.

I chanted enthusiastically with veiled women dressed in traditional clothes. They chanted: “Ya Suzanne, Wake up your husband, the bey. A kilo of lentils are ten pounds a kilo.”*

The fierce sun shone down on us even though it was still January. Suddenly, people became quiet when they heard the call to mid-afternoon prayers. Some entered a nearby mosque; others decided to pray in the street because they did not want to be late for the demonstration in the square. Suddenly, Christian youth formed a human chain around the praying Muslims in case of a probable attack on their Muslim brothers during the prayers. I felt proud and happy to be an Egyptian and this caused me to cry. This was the most wonderful scene I had ever witnessed in my life. This was like the Egypt I had yearned for and read about especially during the great 1919 Revolution, which had united all Egyptians: Muslims and Christians. I admired this time period and wished I could have lived at such a time.*

I was so exhilarated that I forgot I hadn’t eaten breakfast; I was running on adrenalin and didn’t feel tired. I had worn uncomfortable shoes with high heels and my toes had rubbed blisters yet I felt nothing. However, a small trail of blood, dripped from them. A young veiled girl marching beside me said: “You are tired and your legs must be tired. It’s clear you haven’t eaten anything.” I smiled and said, “Not really. This is a minor injury. When we get to Tahrir Square, I’ll deal with the problem.” But the young girl got a bottle of water and sprinkled the cold water on my feet, which stopped the bleeding. Suddenly, another young woman about thirty years old appeared. She was wearing black clothes, and from her clothes, it was obvious she was very poor. She held the hands of two children; one was crying. The little boy was walking with difficulty in old, tattered shoes, which would not make the long distance left to the square. I was surprised and asked her why she brought the children with her. How would she ever carry them all the way to Tahrir Square? She answered in despair, “I’m a widow. I have no one to leave them with. I have no one to help me, but God.” I was ashamed of myself. I felt as if I would never be able to face this woman the rest of the way to Tahrir. I wanted to apologize to her for my naive ideas about poor people who didn’t know the meaning of revolution and struggle.

We arrived as a group together, marching and chanting. We had dreamed of arriving to Tahrir Square to regain the promised land. When we crossed Manial Street, it was about four in the afternoon. After about fifteen minutes, a young man from the Ultras said to me, “Stay strong. You are almost there. Not much further to the square.” Just as I was about to answer, I heard the sound of gunfire. People in front of the demonstration were screaming; the crowd scattered in all directions. Many ran into the nearby streets to escape from the tear gas. I couldn’t distinguish between the sound of gunfire and tear gas. Wounded people were carrying others. Terrified, I was running with some of the others. The widow with the young children who was marching beside me had disappeared. I did not know what had happened to them.

After walking for another fifteen minutes, I still was not able to find any transportation. I hoped to find a taxi near the Metro Station il-Malik il-Saleh. But suddenly a big truck passed very close to me. In the truck, a group of men in prison uniforms, were armed with knives, swords and clubs. They got out of the truck and started to shoot wildly in the air and beat any car which passed in front of them. One of the prisoners shouted insults at people, as if he were a raging bull tied up for a long time, who had just been freed. He repeated one phrase, as if he were a parrot: “There is no government. We are the government.” I started shaking when I saw one of the prisoners break the windshield of a car, who crossed the road at a distance.* Frightened, I was running because one of the prisoners was getting closer to me; he was holding a sharp tool to terrify people. From the direction of his eyes, I thought he might kill me.

A small jeep only a meter from me was crossing the road quickly, fleeing from the escaped prisoners. I suddenly fell on the sidewalk. The sound from my fall caused some of the prisoners to look toward me; however, most of them were terrorizing other people. Suddenly, the man and his young son who were with me at the demonstration appeared and helped me to get up. The escaped prisoners had scattered among other people; they had focused on targeting new victims. The three of us took a taxi towards Maadi, to our neighborhood. The man and his son wanted to be reassured that I arrived safely. I got out of the taxi near the pharmacy on the street where I live and bought medicine and bandages for my feet. When I entered the pharmacy, I heard people discussing the burning of a police station and the escaped convicts from the prison. The anchor was announcing on the news bulletin from someone on the telephone, who informed him that the military government had set a curfew for the districts of greater Cairo, Alexandria and Suez. The curfew would begin that day at six in the evening until six the next morning—it was now fifteen minutes until six!